


Breakable Heaven

by SecretStudentDragonBlog



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Racism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-11-23 01:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20884088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretStudentDragonBlog/pseuds/SecretStudentDragonBlog
Summary: The year is 1964. At Trohman's Holiday Camp, Pete Wentz - handyman and general caretaker - is happy living a quiet life, unseen and left alone by staff and guests alike. Until Patrick Stump arrives for the Summer to make a little money for college by giving piano lessons and waiting tables. But Pete is bi-racial and Patrick is white...and some don't take kindly to mixed-race relationships, and certainly not when those relationships involve two men.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my entry for the Peterick Creations Challenge Summer Lovin' collection, and it was initially going to be fun and frolics at summer camp, but the story became bigger than I anticipated and also took me down a darker path than I expected. The story demands to be told the way it needs to be told though and this is the story that's being told.
> 
> A warning going in - there are still some fun and frolics ahead but more than that there are undertones and outright overtones of racism and violence.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/145360326@N04/48838903863/in/dateposted-friend/)

Pete was up a ladder when he saw Patrick for the first time. He was hanging the ‘Welcome Campers’ banner that he had hung in this exact spot around this date for the past five years. The ladder was the same, a little more worn now, looking used and past its best. Pete felt exactly the same. When the yellow school bus – liberated from the local depot two years ago and fixed up and restored by Pete himself (with some ‘help’ from Joe and ‘supervision’ from Andy) – carrying this season’s summer staff pulled up in front of the main building, Pete had the perfect angle to watch the newcomers as they left the bus.

Usually he wouldn’t pay attention to the summer staff, keeping himself separate-and-apart from them. He wasn’t one of them – he’d learned that the hard way his first year here. Andy and Joe aside, Pete didn’t have any friends and he was happy to keep it that way. After the disaster that was the summer of ’60, emerging emotionally exhausted and physically bruised and battered, Pete had wondered whether he had a future here, the future promised to him by Andy. He had actually been in the process of packing his pitiful number of belongings into two paper sacks when Joe had dragged Andy across the camp to the staff quarters to ‘make’ Pete stay.

Joe, at 13, had been a bundle of nervous energy. Like Pete, he’d been an outcast at the camp – no one wanted to hang out with the owner’s son. That wasn’t cool. Pete, 18 and wearing a WWII fighter-pilot’s leather jacket, had been just the right side of intimidating for Joe to latch on to. Pete hadn’t encouraged the kid, letting Joe trail after him like an over-eager puppy, but he hadn’t discouraged him either – Joe was bright and funny and didn’t care that Pete wasn’t white. He was a good kid that Pete was watching grow into a good man. True, he only saw Joe for the summer season, when he showed up with his family, but they’d developed a close bond over the five years they’d known one another and now Joe was as good as a younger brother to Pete.

Right now, Joe was supposed to be helping Pete with the banner hanging but was nowhere to be seen. Pete assumed Joe was still asleep. It was barely 10.00 and Joe had arrived yesterday with his Mom and younger brother after a ten-hour drive – he took shifts with his Mom – before spending the evening in Andy's cabin drinking and sharing several joints with Pete. Andy had rolled Joe into his own bunk and slept on the sofa. Pete had somehow managed to stagger back to his own cabin and had woken up this morning with an aching head and the kind of feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew had very little to do with the alcohol and pot from last night, and everything to do with the imminent arrival of the summer staff.

And here they were, noisily leaving the bus and assembling on the front lawn for the welcome speech from Dr Trohman, some 35 young men and women, all around Joe's age. They moved into smaller clusters, rather than one big homogenous group, and Pete could see that some alliances had already been made and were being cemented, and others were being made right now. There were handshakes and backslaps and claps to the shoulder, laughter, loud and abrasive and jarring. Pete gritted his teeth – he enjoyed the relative solitude he had here for the majority of the year, the loudest sounds being nature at work in the local birds, the wildlife that would wander out of the surrounding forests when the site was devoid of campers, and the stream that ran behind his cabin.

A big city boy, born and bred, Pete had been surprised at how much he’d quickly come to love living in White Salmon, even if he wasn’t in the town proper. At first, he’d been completely overwhelmed and a little frightened at the amount of open space, the sheer number and different types of trees, the looming Mount Hood in the near distance, the ferocity of the river – Pete had grown up surrounded by concrete and tarmac, the noise of traffic and people, the smells of industry and motor oil, and to go from all of that to none of it had taken some getting used to. 

What he’d realised, gradually, was that he could breathe here – literally and figuratively – and he’d learned to relax and let go of his worries and prevailing fears. For the most part, anyway. His first summer at Trohman’s had taught him to keep some of his walls up, and he trusted very few people even now. Dr Trohman had been willing to take a chance on Pete, fresh out of high school and desperate for work, and had done nothing but support and trust him ever since. Pete knew that Dr Trohman had put faith in him where many wouldn’t and he owed the doctor a huge debt of gratitude.

And he was grateful. He really was. He didn’t have the words to express just how grateful he was. And he didn’t think he needed them either. Something told him that Dr Trohman knew, without anything being said, and that it would be embarrassing for both of them if Pete tried to say thank you.

But, thankful as he was, he’d reached a point where he was maybe a little selfish now. Unlike the majority of staff here who only came for the summer season each year – or for just the one season before going off to college – Trohman’s was home to Pete. This wasn’t his ‘summer job’ or his ‘other job’ (like some of the townies who worked here at the weekends to earn a little extra cash) – this was his only job. Pete lived here year-round, caretaking and, basically, security-guarding out of season and resident handyman over the summer. 

He had family back in Chicago but a bus journey of over 2,000 miles was neither cheap nor easy, so he wired the best part of his pay check home to his Mother each month – because his younger siblings, like the bus journey, were also neither cheap nor easy and had the temerity to keep growing. He’d made the trip home once since first arriving on the original coach owned by the camp. That visit had been for Christmas and after spending almost four months alone at the camp once his first summer had ended, the noise generated by his immediate and extended family inside his childhood home – which had never really been big enough to begin with – had him leaving a day early under the pretence of being needed to fix a frozen water pipe that had burst and flooded the main kitchen. He’d been tense and anxious the entire way back to the camp – a journey made entirely by hitching across the states – and hadn’t been back to Chicago since, despite making countless promises to his Mom that he’d be home to stay ‘soon’. He always fully intended to keep those promises at the time of making them but, ultimately, always wound up breaking them. 

Chicago was home. Trohman’s was Home. It was his. And it felt more, with each season that came around, like Pete's Home was under attack and being invaded.

He didn’t mind the staff who returned each year, or the weekend-townies – they were mostly older and kept to themselves. They didn’t bother Pete and he didn’t bother them. They knew what he was – some of it, the part that was visible and he couldn’t hide, anyway – and they didn’t care. Pete was respectful and polite and damned good at his job and that’s all they looked for. They’d all been working at Trohman’s since well before Pete showed up, probably before Dr Trohman had taken over from his own Dad, in some cases, and Pete knew from the way Joe was raised and from the way Dr Trohman treated people himself that Joe's grandpa – Mr Joseph Trohman – had to have also been a stand-up guy. Meaning he would never have hired anyone long-term if they were any kind of bigot. As a Jewish man, Dr Trohman knew all too well about persecution and hatred and he wouldn’t have tolerated it from any of his employees, so the long-serving staff weren’t Pete's problem.

The summer staff, on the other hand? As Joe was sometimes wont to say – ‘oy vey’.

Spoilt little rich kids, every last one of them. That was Pete's take on the summer staff and he had yet to be proved wrong. Each year he bet Andy $10 that the summer staff would be high school graduates, on their way to high-ranking colleges in the fall, and all from good families. Each year he took that 10-spot from Andy within 3 days of the summer staff arriving. It was Andy's job to personally interview and vet each of those kids before the guests arrived and work out which activities they could deliver alongside their day or evening jobs. It would have been easy for Andy to lie about his findings and take that money from Pete, but Andy was unflinchingly honest and wouldn’t have dreamed of swindling money out of his closest friend. Now, looking at this year’s offerings, Pete could already taste the ice-cold beer that Andy's $10 was going to pay for. He could almost smell the privilege oozing from their pores.

Their clothes were the biggest giveaway. Everything tailored to fit and expensively made. Shoes were loafers and brogues, made from good leather and polished to a high-shine, new and pristine. Class rings caught the sun on a few fingers – hands that looked smooth and well-cared for. These were not the boys you’d find up a ladder, hanging a banner – that was for the likes of Pete, with his worn and scuffed work-boots that had already been worn and scuffed when he inherited them from Andy three years ago, his patched and faded jeans, and his oil and paint stained t-shirt, frayed at the collar and hem. His own hands were rough, from years of hard and heavy work, his nails bitten down and ragged, scars cutting white into his golden-hewed skin.

He looked at the girls too, although carefully, surreptitiously – it wouldn’t be good for him to get caught looking where he shouldn’t. Another lesson he’d learned, although that had been much earlier in life, and not through personal experience. Again, there was obvious good-breeding and wealth there, as evidenced by the pearls – real – to go with the twin-sets. All of the girls were extremely pretty, if not outright beautiful, just as all of the boys were handsome – these were the staff who would be interacting with the families over the coming weeks and according to Joe it had always been the done thing to hire good-looking, pleasing-to-the-eye, clean-cut American kids.

And this year Joe would be one of them. For the first time he would be an official member of staff, teaching classical guitar to children during the day and waiting tables in the evening. He wasn’t overly thrilled about either job (“nobody, but nobody, wants to learn classical guitar, man”, he had grumbled to Andy. “It’s not cool. Electric’s where it’s at! Have they not heard of Chuck Berry? Or the Beach Boys?”) but wasn’t complaining about picking up a wage packet each week either, already trying to talk Pete and Andy into buying beer for him when he got his first week’s pay. Andy had said a firm ‘no’. Pete was wavering – if he didn’t get it, someone else would or take Joe's money and make off with it. Pete had seen that happen with other summer kids before now and hadn’t much cared – a fool and his money and all that jazz – but Joe was different. He wasn’t anything like the kids he’d be working with, despite being as moneyed as they were, and Pete wanted to make sure no one did wrong by him. Especially the group he was currently looking at.

He knew that he was unlikely to be noticed up his ladder, if he kept quiet and stayed hidden behind the leaves of the oak tree his ladder was braced against. It afforded him a good view of the new staff while mostly shielding him from view. It was in his best interests to keep out of sight if he had any sense of self-preservation. He was about to dismiss all of the kids below from his mind when one last person stepped off the bus from where he’d hung back, talking to the driver.

He was laughing as he came off the last step and called something back over his shoulder, so Pete caught him completely off guard and in profile, totally relaxed and unaware of anyone watching him. And a flurry of thoughts and emotions went through Pete's head all at once.

He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His mouth, oh God, his mouth! I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. His laugh is like music. I want him. I need him. Stupid, preppy, rich kid. He’s just like the rest of them. He’d hurt me as soon as look at me. I hate him.

Pete watched to see what the kid next, which group he joined – and was surprised to see him choose a spot on the lawn and stand alone. There was no effort made to talk to his peers or ingratiate himself with any of the groups – he just parked himself off the side, put his hands in his pockets and took in his surroundings. Pete squinted to see better – was the kid whistling? He was, lips pursed and – carried to Pete on the slight, summer breeze – a sweet melody issuing forth into the air. This was his first mistake.

Conversations faded away as the other staff became aware of the sound, all heads turning in the kid’s direction. The expressions on their faces ranged from puzzled to amused to what Pete recognised as hostility. A knot of maybe five boys were looking at the loner in a way that told Pete they’d just found their new favourite pastime for the summer. They looked about ready to approach when the loudspeaker mounted on the veranda squealed to life, signalling Dr Trohman was about to speak.

Pete braced against the ladder with his feet and lifted his hands to his ears, knowing from past experience that the microphone was going to be way too loud and wanting to keep as much of his hearing as he could. He saw that the kid did the same, indicating that he had also been party to an over-enthusiastic speech-giver before today. The boys laughed at the kid – then yelped in shock and pain when Dr Trohman’s voice boomed a greeting across the lawn. Even with his palms pressed tight against the sides of his head Pete winced at the volume of it and his eardrums vibrated.

“Oh, it’s too loud!” Dr Trohman bellowed. “Joseph, turn it down!” He looked around, the microphone lowered to his side, and shouted for his son who was usually around to control the volume of the loudspeaker. Pete knew that it was Joe who had turned the volume up as high as he could – he did it every year, tampering with the settings the night before and knowing that it would deafen the summer kids. And every year he was on hand to adjust the volume, usually with a satisfied grin on his face. But this year there was no sign of him and now Dr Trohman looked confused and flustered as he looked around for someone to help him.

And now the kid made his second mistake.

As if he hadn’t already singled himself out enough he now took it further by mounting the steps to the veranda and speaking calmly to the older man. Then he moved over to where the microphone was plugged in and turned a dial, squatting beside the amplifier and looking to Dr Trohman with a nod.

“Hmm. Yes.” Dr Trohman tried again, his voice significantly quieter now. “Thank you, erm, young man?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly in the kid’s direction and was rewarded with a name. “Thank you, Patrick.”

Patrick. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. He’s kind and helpful and doesn’t care what people think of him and-

Pete made himself stop thinking about Patrick. That was a path he couldn’t afford to go down for a multitude of reasons. He had to harden himself and not give in to the current he could feel pulling him in Patrick's direction – there was a very real danger of drowning if he let himself go. 

Unfortunately, in his haste to cover his ears when he first heard the feedback through the loudspeaker, Pete had let go of the end of the banner that he was holding. In the commotion that followed no one noticed it fall to the ground at the foot of the ladder, the other end already secured by Pete earlier above the veranda, but now he knew he had to go down there and retrieve it before anyone did notice it. And that would definitely draw attention his way. He was debating just staying put until the crowd dispersed when Patrick, still hunkered down beside the amp in case he was needed for further technical assistance, spotted a heap of waxed material to his left that had certainly not been there a moment ago. Pete held his breath as Patrick frowned – and wasn’t that just an expression that Pete had never anticipated being attractive on anyone – then twisted away from where Dr Trohman was speaking and towards where Pete's ladder was propped, his eyes following the banner along the ground, reaching the tree trunk and the foot of the ladder, then scanning up to where Pete was frozen in place.

Their eyes met, Pete's wide with fear and Patrick's squinting in the sunlight. Pete distinctly saw Patrick suck in a breath as something tangible clicked into place between them. Pete's throat went dry and his heart sped up so rapidly that he almost toppled off the ladder. The only thing that stopped him was the death-grip he had on the top rung. He didn’t know when he’d taken hold of the ladder – it had actually been when his brain realised that Patrick was going to see him and had acted to prevent such a fall occurring – but he was thankful that he had.

Patrick maintained the eye contact for what felt like a lifetime and Pete desperately tried to think of something to say, something that wouldn’t make him look like a complete fool, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a pathetic wheeze of breath. So much for not looking stupid. Patrick looked away and Pete understood that he’d had his chance and he’d missed it. Someone like Patrick didn’t have time for people like Pete – he must have his choice of girls back wherever he called home. It was pretty stupid of Pete to even assume that Patrick had been looking at him in that way anyhow and it was actually a good thing that Pete hadn’t acted on it because he could literally get himself killed for it. All it would take was a shout from Patrick to the other young men that Pete was making improper advances and they’d been on him like a pack of dogs, all initial differences to Patrick set aside in a united front against perverts. And once they got close enough to Pete they’d see that his skin colour was different too and that would enrage them even further.

In the time it took for these thoughts to race, terrifyingly, through his mind Pete saw that Patrick hadn’t, in fact, dismissed Pete the way Pete had dismissed the other summer kids. Patrick had turned away to retrieve the fallen banner. He was standing at the foot of the ladder, holding the cloth up towards Pete, a shy smile on his face.

“I think you dropped this?” 

“Uh.” Pete croaked, embarrassed at his lack of verbal communication but unable to do much about it. He took the banner from Patrick, ignoring their fingers brushing and definitely not registering how big Patrick's eyes got when that happened. He forced himself to try harder and managed to mumble ‘thanks’, which at least showed he was polite if nothing else. Then he just stood on his ladder, holding the banner and looking down at Patrick, wishing he’d go away. Maybe Patrick would take his lack of speech to mean that he was dim-witted – surely that would cause him to lose interest. No one wanted to spend more time than necessary around someone feeble-minded, in Pete's experience, unless it was to make their life miserable and Patrick didn’t seem that type of guy.

“I’m Patrick.” Patrick held out a hand for Pete to shake. Pete stared at it. It was one thing for Patrick to assume Pete had no faculties – it would be downright deceitful of Pete to pretend that was the case. Besides, he’d been raised better than that. If someone introduced themselves and offered their hand, the polite thing to do was to shake and introduce yourself right back. Pete's parents had instilled that in him when he was very small and he knew that no matter how many victories chalked up to the Civil Rights Movement he was still a mulatto to most white people and his Mother’s people were still persecuted and often murdered with little justice. The church bombing in Alabama was still fresh in Pete's mind and he had no desire to make himself a target over something as simple as a polite handshake. So, he put his hand into Patrick's.

And what should have been something unassuming became the first step on the road to Pete's complete destruction. Once Patrick's fingers wrapped around his own, Pete saw exactly how this was going to play out – he would fall for Patrick as surely as Patrick had fallen from the heavens and there was no happy ending for either of them. There couldn’t be – there was no earthly way this could lead anywhere other than damnation. Pete knew he was worthless and destined for nothing and nowhere and he’d made his peace with that five summers ago when he’d had it beaten into him, but now he saw himself dragging Patrick down that dirty road with him. And he sensed that Patrick would go willingly too.

He could see it in Patrick's eyes – were they blue or were they green or were they grey and what was that scar knifing through his eyebrow? – and the slow, stupid smile that those perfectly lush lips were re-shaping themselves into. Something was happening here and Patrick was being swept away by it and happily so. Pete looked at their joined hands – Patrick's unblemished and milk-pale, his fingernails neatly trimmed and clean, Pete's scarred and weather-worn, his nails bitten ragged and already gathering the day’s work-dirt – and he envisioned them joining more than hands if he allowed it to happen.

Breaking the physical connection was difficult but necessary, severing the budding but already strong emotional link was much harder, but Pete did both. He yanked his hand out of Patrick's, at the same time re-arranging his features into a frown, a scowl, an entirely unfriendly countenance, one designed to dissuade Patrick from any further attempt at conversation or camaraderie. 

It worked. Pete saw hurt and confusion flash through Patrick’s eyes, watched them go from summer-blue to winter-grey in a heartbeat. Patrick almost physically pulled himself together and straightened up, his hands going into his pockets and his chin lifting defiantly. The change was startling and Pete could swear he heard the sound of shutters coming down as Patrick schooled his face into cool disdain. Atta boy, Pete thought. Now walk away and don’t look back. Don’t give me a second thought. Go and make friends, maybe get a girlfriend, and forget anything you think may have happened with the handyman on your first day. Just enjoy your summer and-

“You didn’t tell me your name.” Patrick broke into his thoughts. Pete blinked in surprise. Patrick's face hadn’t changed but his voice was low. “I might be young and green but I’m not stupid and whatever that was, you felt it too. And you have my name, so I should at least have yours. Fair’s fair.”

“Pete.” The word tumbled from Pete's mouth before he could stop it and once it was out there, there was no taking it back, no swallowing it deep down inside.

“Good to meet you, Pete.” Patrick nodded once, firmly, then spun on his heel and walked briskly away, leaving Pete standing on the bottom rung of his ladder and the first rung of falling in love.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two - in which we get a glimpse of Patrick's childhood and see his perspective of that important first encounter with Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I did say I couldn't promise a regular update and it's only taken me...eight months to get chapter two finished!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter, for commenting and for bookmarking (yikes, no pressure there!). I hope this chapter gets similar approval.

Chapter Two

By the time he turned six, Patrick was astute enough to understand that his father didn’t love him. (In actual fact, his father didn’t love anyone – he was almost incapable of it – but Patrick didn’t realise that until was well into his teens). The day of his sixth birthday party, when his entire class from school was invited for pony rides and turns on a miniature carousel in the Stump’s large garden, followed by food served in the dining room – the good silverware and best crystal were under lock and key for fear of sticky fingers, not to mention suspicion of theft by the hired help – and a two-tier cake that had cost more than the equivalent of a week’s rent in the Wentz home across the city, Patrick overheard his father talking to one of his classmate’s parents.

Said classmate was a bully and had been torturing Patrick – and other children – daily since the start of the school year, both physically and emotionally. Patrick was hiding – at his own birthday party – under the dining room table, the tablecloth reaching almost to the floor so he was completely safe from pinching fingers and biting words, both of which drew tears. He was tearful anyway – it was his special day and now he wasn’t getting to ride the pony or the carousel, he was missing out on playing with his friends and he wasn’t going to get to blow out the candles on his cake. This meant he wouldn’t get to make his wish that Billy Morgan, the bane of his existence, would move to another school. His real wish was that Billy would be carried away by a dragon and eaten but, even at six, Patrick knew that was unlikely to come true – Billy moving to another school was wholly possible. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut and made both wishes anyway – sitting under the table as he was, he had nothing to lose.

When his mother, who he loved more than anyone or anything else in the world, had told him about this wonderful party she was organising for him Patrick had felt like he would surely burst with excitement and delight. Even hearing that ‘all your classmates will be there’ hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm because his mother couldn’t actually mean everyone in his class, just his very best friends. Finding out two weeks before the party that ‘everyone’ did in fact mean everyone brought his anxiety bubbling to the surface.

He was an anxious child in general, plagued with worries and concerns, mostly about things he found difficult to articulate and that he could do nothing about. School had been particularly difficult, to begin with at least, and Patrick had struggled to make friends and find his place in the new and unfamiliar social setting. When his birthday neared and the wondrous-sounding party was announced Patrick had anticipated the attendance of the three or four children he had cautiously courted (or been courted by, in the case of one boy who had no real interest in Patrick or in being his friend but had been relentlessly encouraged to form a friendship by his own father who merely wanted to move into and stay in Mr Stump’s social circle). Taking the stack of party invitations – handwritten in his mother’s elegant script and sealed into expensive, thick, creamy-looking envelopes – into school, Patrick had confirmation that, yes, all 22 children in his class were invited. And the following day he returned home to his mother with 22 RSVPs – no one was going to miss the opportunity to socialise with the Chicago Stumps.

Sitting in the semi-darkness, beneath the solid mahogany table that could easily seat 16 people but mostly just hosted Patrick and his parents for meals that took place in near-silence, the dust tickled his nose, threatening to make him sneeze and making him wonder whether he was going to get that tight-chested, breathing-through-the-eye-of-a-needle feeling that he sometimes did. He was in two minds about whether to stay put or to try and be brave and go back outside – he did so want a pony ride and to feed the gentle animal a carrot, as the lady in charge of the pony had promised him he could – when the door to the dining room opened and he was frozen to the spot by the unmistakable sound of his father’s voice.

“…spent all this money and he’s nowhere to be seen.” The door closed, matches were struck and the stench of cigars filled the air, the smell filtering down to where Patrick was hugging his knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. He was clamping his lips so tightly between his teeth that they had gone white, and his eyes were huge behind his recently-acquired glasses – the very glasses that had simultaneously cemented both his father’s immense distaste for him and propelled him to the top of the pile for attention from his dreaded bully of a classmate. Anyone who had crouched down and lifted the heavy, intricately-woven tablecloth at that moment would have seen a terrified little boy, small for his age, almost trembling and suddenly overcome with an urgent need to empty his bladder.

“Kids, huh?” Another voice said, a voice Patrick didn’t know. He picked up the tone in the voice but, young as he was, he couldn’t have described it other than to say he didn’t like it. It was a wheedling tone, on the verge of obsequious. Patrick had heard people talk to his father like this before, generally people who worked for him, and it was never pleasant to listen to. “You can give ‘em the moon and they ain’t happy. If it’s any consolation, sir, my boy is having a great time out there and he-“

“Which one is yours?” Mr Stump cut in brusquely, never big on manners apart from when he was demanding them from his wife and son or his employees.

“Billy, sir.” Came the reply. “He’s tall, with dark hair.” Oh, this was Billy Morgan’s dad.

Patrick's father grunted in response.

“A tip for you, Morgan.” He said. “Stop calling him ‘Billy’ and use his full name instead. ‘William’ is a businessman’s name. ‘Billy’ would be pumping gas for that businessman.” A pause, more cigar smoke, the smell turning Patrick's stomach. “I know which one is your boy. Went straight to the front of the line for the carousel?”

“Did he?” A note of worry in Morgan’s voice now – Patrick was well versed in how that sounded. “I’ll certainly talk to him about that later, sir.”

“Nonsense! He knows what he wants and he lets no one get in his way. I only wish my son were more like him. Scared of his own shadow and wouldn’t say boo to a goose, that one. Sickly too – always something wrong with the boy. Smart enough, so his teacher tells me – although, what does she know, really? Why isn’t she married, raising children of her own, hmm? Is yours athletic, Morgan? He looks athletic, strong, resilient.” He didn’t wait for answer from the other man, although Morgan was nodding in agreement with everything Mr Stump was saying. “Everything you want in a son. Brains will only take you so far. You need guts and audaciousness to get ahead in business.”

“My Billy…uh, William…sure has guts and the other thing!” Morgan said enthusiastically.

“Certainly looks that way.” Mr Stump agreed. “Doesn’t help that Patrick is so coddled by his mother, of course. Insists on calling him ‘Ricky’, endless visits to the doctor for that damned chest of his – asthma, they call it – and piano lessons. Piano! Waste of time. Pays for it out of her inheritance. I don’t go to work to pay for piano lessons.” Another prolonged silence, more foul-smelling smoke. “All I wanted was a son I could teach to catch a ball, maybe have him work on the boat with me at weekends, but instead I got this weak, head-in-the-clouds, ‘musical’ kid. To say I’m disappointed would do the word a disservice. How would you feel about a swap?”

Both men laughed heartily and Patrick heard his father slap Morgan on the shoulder. Then the door was opening again and the men were going to the study to discuss some ideas that Morgan had.

And Patrick pressed his hot face against his knees and let the tears run down his legs.

*****

At 18, having finished high school – Valedictorian and voted ‘most likely to succeed’ by an overwhelming majority – and wooed by the very best colleges in the country, Patrick saw working at Trohman’s for the summer as his only opportunity to escape his domineering father and have some semblance of a life of his own, brief as it was going to be. Come the fall, he’d be starting a bachelor’s degree in Business – not his choice but his father’s – and then into the family business once he graduated, to follow in his father’s footsteps.

All Patrick really wanted to do with his life was make music. Since his first piano lesson at the age of five, balanced carefully on three cushions in order to reach the keys, through to adding classical guitar at fourteen and secretly teaching himself to play rock and roll from fifteen onwards, to dabbling with writing his own songs with a school friend at seventeen, Patrick's passion for music was fierce and strong. But his father would be paying for his college tuition so a career in music was a dream and nothing more.

Trohman’s was everything he’d hoped it would be – and more, it turned out when he arrived. Patrick knew from the second he sat down on the camp bus that he would never fit in with the other summer staff. He was as moneyed as they were, sure, but he’d never had time for the smug and casual attitude of superiority that his peers seemed to have. His mother had taught him to be compassionate and caring, to think about the less fortunate in the world – she’d been on several committees dedicated to helping the poor and desperate and once Patrick was old enough he’d been allowed to visit some of those families with his mother. It had opened his eyes to the suffering and heartbreak that a lack of money and resources could lead to, and his spring and summer breaks from thirteen onwards had been spent working in poverty-stricken neighbourhoods. He’d been part of a team renovating family homes, carried out essential repairs for the elderly, taken part in reading schemes for both illiterate adults and struggling children, and helped to set up and run a soup kitchen for people living on the streets.

Compared to all of that, Trohman’s was a dream job – away from the city, surrounded by nature and fresh air and being paid a fairly decent wage too, which would give him a head start at college while he found a job. Patrick had struggled with a fair amount of guilt when accepting the job because he knew he was doing this for selfish reasons – the guests here were pretty wealthy themselves and were here for leisure and relaxation, their lives about as swell as could be, and while Patrick was here in a helping capacity these weren’t people whose very quality of life depended on him. The friend who got him the job had pretty much had to strong-arm him into it, saying that Patrick had given plenty to the community and could, just for once, do something for himself. Thinking about it gave him a fresh surge of guilt as the bus rolled through the gates of the campsite.

Patrick had purposely sat at the front of the bus and no one had elected to take the seat next to him. For the first half of the hour-long journey from the railway station he’d stared out of the window to his left in silence, taking in the countryside as it passed him by, but as they drove through the small town closest to the camp he’d wanted to know more about the place and the people and had leaned forward to ask questions of the driver. Frank was in his fifties and was a townie, employed by the camp each summer to drive the guests on outings but he started and finished every season with the summer staff – Patrick was the first of the kids to ever strike up a conversation with him and Frank had almost swerved the bus off the road and onto the sidewalk in shock.

When he realised that Patrick was genuine in his curiosity about White Salmon and the surrounding area, Frank had engaged enthusiastically – his family went back four generations here and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t tell Patrick about the place. The second half of the journey passed pleasantly and by the time Patrick was leaving the bus he knew that he’d made at least one solid acquaintance here, especially when Frank’s parting shot was for Patrick to “not let those bastard rich kids grind you down, son” with a grin and a wink. Patrick couldn’t help but laugh at this – Frank had to know that Patrick was one of those ‘bastard rich kids’ too but the grin, coupled with the scandalised looks on the faces of the staff who were still close enough to overhear, told Patrick that the jibe had hit home where it was supposed to and that he was in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

He didn’t care that he stood alone on the lawn in front of the main building, didn’t care that he was attracting what were probably hostile looks from some of the group who’d travelled on the bus with him, and certainly paid no mind to the fact that he was the only person who offered to help Dr Trohman with his malfunctioning loudspeaker. Patrick had been more or less a loner since childhood and had his fair share of bullies too – he could deal with whatever might come his way this summer and was determined that he wouldn’t let a few mean-spirited dimwits – because they were always dim-witted – ruin his much-longed-for (and well-deserved, although this was still difficult to admit to himself) summer sanctuary.

What he wasn’t at all prepared for, and was almost knocked off his feet in astonishment by, was Pete, up a ladder and almost hidden behind the greenery of a tree. Crouched near the foot of the tree, Patrick had thanked his lucky stars that he was pretty much sitting down on the ground because he felt sure his knees would have deposited him that way if he’d been standing when his eyes met Pete's. 

The sunlight through the boughs was casting patterns onto Pete's skin, his face and arms seemingly tattooed with leaf-prints, and when Patrick stood up and offered Pete the dropped end of the banner – smiling in a way that Patrick was sure must look really goofy to Pete but unable to wipe it from his face – Pete's already wide eyes had opened further still. His own eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness, Patrick was entranced by the perfect shape of Pete's lips, mesmerised by the shades of gold and brown in his eyes, captivated by the golden hue of his skin. And as unexpected as the sudden rush of feeling was, Patrick wasn’t afraid of it.

He’d known for a long time that he was gay and had come to terms with it in his mid-teens. At first, he’d tried to deny it, tried to force himself to feel attracted to girls, but had eventually given up. Going to an all-boys high school was both helpful and problematic – it meant he didn’t have to worry about pretending he was interested in any of his female classmates because there weren’t any, but it also meant having to hide any interest he had in any of his male classmates. Luckily, that was an extremely rare occurrence and he’d managed four years without any trouble, moving smoothly through to graduation without a girlfriend and – because he kept so much to himself – with very little interest in his lack of romantic life.

Once self-acceptance took place, Patrick settled down to wait for his big moment, when he would meet the first man he was attracted to who would not only recognise him for what he was but would return the sentiment. And he’d found that man at Trohman’s holiday camp, undoing Patrick entirely with a simple handshake and the inability to form a coherent sentence in Patrick's presence. Patrick was delighted at provoking this reaction in someone but also giddy with attraction and excitement – his joy at finding the person he had been patiently waiting for swept all sense from his mind, making Pete's abrupt U-turn all the more painful.

Watching Pete's beautiful features turn to stone, his eyes flashing angrily, and having Pete's hand snatched from his own prompted an almost physical response from Patrick. He knew he hadn’t imagined it – the connection was real and Pete had felt it too, and not just plain mutual attraction but something stronger and deeper. This wasn’t what Patrick had been expecting, this level of emotion, but now that he knew it was there, and seeing Pete so quickly denying its existence, he felt robbed and cheated. So be it, then. He wasn’t usually one to give up easily but this wasn’t something he could afford to pursue when there was so much at stake for him personally. So he walked away, feeling angry and humiliated.

The rest of the summer staff were gone, the lawn empty, save for Patrick's lone trunk, and silent, but a quick check in the dining room of the main building got him a map of the camp site, some directions to his cabin and the key, and a schedule for the evening from a tired-looking townie who was polishing the silver in preparation for the guests arriving tomorrow. Patrick set off for his cabin, dragging his heavy trunk behind him and internally mulling over his encounter with Pete.

Reaching the row of cabins and setting his trunk down in front of him while he worked out which cabin was his, Patrick was still so focused on Pete and where it had all gone wrong that he didn’t realise what was happening to him until he hit the ground, having been pushed forwards over his trunk. He landed on his chest painfully, the breath knocked forcefully out of him, but immediately pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then climbed shakily to his feet and turned to face his attacker.

Three of the other summer staff stood facing him on the other side of his trunk, laughing at what the young man standing out front had done. Patrick's jaw clenched with anger, his fists balling at his sides and heat climbing his neck and cheekbones. The laughter faded and the three men moved from relaxed to fighting stances, fully prepared to tackle Patrick as one.

“Can’t fight me on your own?” Patrick asked, aware that other people were coming out of their cabins to watch. “Chicken?”

The first guy’s nostrils flared. He was bigger than Patrick, close to six feet, and pretty well built too. He stepped over Patrick's trunk, ready to put Patrick back on the ground but seriously this time – and Patrick punched him in the throat with a quick upwards jab. The guy staggered, choking, then fell to his knees, his hands clutching his throat. Patrick stepped back, quickly, out of reach, although he didn’t have anything to worry about now – the damage was done and the fight was gone out of the guy.

Patrick steadied himself, settled into his own fighting stance with one foot behind the other and his fists curled loosely at chest height. He lifted his chin defiantly at the remaining two, eyes blazing but his heart thumping rapidly.

“You want some too?” He asked. “I’ll take you both on. I don’t care.” He hoped bravado would get him through this – he knew he wouldn’t last if they both rushed him.

“What’s going on?” A new voice cut in. “Dr Trohman doesn’t stand for fighting.” Pete stepped into Patrick's peripheral vision. There was a frown on his face – even that was attractive, especially so, Patrick's brain registered dimly. “Looks like three on one here too. People get fired for harassing other staff like that.”

“He started it.” The first guy was back on his feet now, his words a wheezy mess. “He hit me.”

“After you pushed him. From behind.” Pete replied. “I saw what happened. Then you were getting ready to jump him together. He just got in before you could. If I were you, I’d walk it off and forget it happened.” Pete cut straight over the other man, whose mouth had opened to argue his case further. “First day misunderstanding, that’s all. No harm done.”

There was a moment where Patrick thought the altercation might escalate into more violence, with Pete being attacked, but the three men took Pete's advice and walked away, not without looking back once or twice with unrestrained resentment in their eyes.

“Well, I think you’ve made some enemies there.” Pete looked at Patrick once the others were far enough away to no longer be a threat. “Not the best start to your summer, Patrick.” 

“Why did you follow me?” Patrick blurted out, only now dropping his fists. He was thoroughly confused by Pete's rejection of him, only to appear when he needed help. “You made your point back there. Don’t worry – I’m not going to say or do anything stupid.”

“Aside from getting into a fight with a guy twice your size on your first day?” Pete's lips curved into a smile, then he held something out in his palm – Patrick's cabin key. “You dropped this on the front lawn. I was only coming to return it, that’s all.”

Patrick took the key, careful not to let his hand linger against Pete's hand. He was embarrassed now – assuming Pete had come to make sure he was going to keep quiet, then running to his rescue when he saw Patrick was in trouble.

“Thank you.” He said. “And thanks for stepping in. I could handle it though.”

“I saw that.” Pete said and though Patrick was expecting sarcasm there wasn’t any in Pete's tone. “Nice move, that punch. Where’d you learn that?”

“A friend taught me.” Patrick said. “He was beaten up a few times when he was younger until someone taught him, and he showed me some basic self-defence. Uh, he said ‘you either learn to fight or you learn to take shit and I-‘“

“-don’t like to take shit.” Pete cut in, a wide grin on his face now. “You know Joe? I taught him that.”

“We went through high school together.” Patrick relaxed completely now. “He’s a good friend. Got me this job.”

“Yeah, well, Joe was taking shit in middle school so I showed him a few things I’ve learned along the way myself.” Pete said. “Do you want me to report what happened? Dr Trohman really will fire them for that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Patrick shook his head. “Like you said, no harm done. I’m sure it’ll all be forgotten about soon enough.” He hesitated, then asked. “Can we start over? I feel like if we’re both friends with Joe we could probably be friends with one another.” It wasn’t what he wanted, not even close, but he’d take what he could get.

“I’d like that.” Pete answered carefully. “Friends sounds good to me. Let’s get your trunk into your cabin. It’s getting close to dinnertime and you have orientation after that. Tomorrow, it’s going to get pretty busy around here so enjoy your last evening of peace and quiet.”

Carrying the trunk between them and heading for Patrick's cabin, neither of them were aware that the fight and Pete’s intervention had set in motion a chain of events that was going to change both of their lives forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping that it won't take me another eight months to get another chapter done and that people stick around for more. A warning though - in the words of Fall Out Boy themselves, sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger. And I'm afraid that's true of the road that Patrick and Pete have now set themselves on.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't promise a regular update on this - apologies in advance. My brain is still brewing this one.
> 
> Title is from 'Cruel Summer' by Taylor Swift, which is a gorgeous song and has very FOB-esque lyrics, not to mention a sample of the beat from Miss Missing You, so what's not to love?


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